Robin was having a bad Saturday, following an even worse night.

She had woken with a yelp at 4 a.m., with the sensation of being still tangled in the nightmare in which she had been carrying a whole bag full of listening devices through darkened streets, knowing that men in masks were following her. The old knife wound on her arm had been gaping open and it was the trail of her spurting blood that her pursuers were following, and she knew she would never make it to the place where Strike was waiting for the bag of bugs…

“What?” Matthew had said groggily, half asleep.

“Nothing,” Robin had replied, before lying sleepless until seven, when she felt entitled to get up.

A scruffy young blond man had been lurking in Albury Street for the past two days. He barely bothered to conceal the fact that he was keeping their house under observation. Robin had discussed him with Strike, who was sure that he was a journalist rather than a private detective, probably a junior one, dispatched to keep tabs on her because Mitch Patterson’s hourly rate had become an unjustifiable expense.

She and Matthew had moved to Albury Street to escape the place where the Shacklewell Ripper had lurked. It was supposed to be a place of safety, yet it, too, had become contaminated by contact with unnatural death. Mid-morning, Robin had taken refuge in the bathroom before Matthew could realize she was hyperventilating again. Sitting on the bathroom floor, she had recourse to the technique she had learned in therapy, cognitive restructuring, which sought to identify the automatic thoughts of pursuit, pain and danger that sprang into her mind given certain triggers. He’s just some idiot who works for the Sun. He wants a story, that’s all. You’re safe. He can’t get at you. You’re completely safe.

When Robin emerged from the bathroom and went downstairs, she found her husband slamming kitchen doors and drawers as he threw together a sandwich. He did not offer to make one for her.

“What are we supposed to tell Tom and Sarah, with that bastard staring through the windows?”

“Why would we tell Tom and Sarah anything?” asked Robin blankly.

“We’re going to theirs for dinner tonight!”

“Oh, no,” groaned Robin. “I mean, yes. Sorry. I forgot.”

“Well, what if the bloody journalist follows us?”

“We ignore him,” said Robin. “What else can we do?”

She heard her mobile ringing upstairs and, glad of the excuse to get out of Matthew’s vicinity, went to answer it.

“Hi,” said Strike. “Good news. Izzy’s hired us to look into Chiswell’s death. Well,” he corrected himself, “what she actually wants is for us to prove Kinvara did it, but I managed to broaden the remit.”

“That’s fantastic!” whispered Robin, carefully closing the bedroom door and sitting down on the bed.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” said Strike. “Now, what we need for starters is a line on the police investigation, especially forensics. I’ve just tried Wardle, but he’s been warned not to talk to us. They seem to have guessed I’d still be sniffing around. Then I tried Anstis, but nothing doing, he’s full time on the Olympics and doesn’t know anyone on the case. So I was going to ask, is Vanessa back off compassionate leave?”

“Yes!” said Robin, suddenly excited. It was the first time she had had the useful contact, rather than Strike. “But even better than Vanessa—she’s dating a guy in forensics, Oliver, I’ve never met him, but—”

“If Oliver would agree to talk to us,” said Strike, “that would be fantastic. Tell you what, I’ll call Shanker, see whether he’ll sell me something we can offer in exchange. Call you back.”

He hung up. Though hungry, Robin did not go back downstairs, but stretched out on the smart mahogany bed, which had been a wedding gift from Matthew’s father. It was so cumbersome and heavy that it had taken the full complement of removal men, sweating and swearing under their breath, to haul it up the stairs in pieces and reassemble it in the bedroom. Robin’s dressing table, on the other hand, was old and cheap. Light as an orange crate without its drawers in, it had required only one man to pick it up and place it between the bedroom windows.

Ten minutes later, her mobile rang again.

“That was quick.”

“Yeah, we’re in luck. Shanker’s having a rest day. Our interests happen to coincide. There’s somebody he wouldn’t mind the police picking off. Tell Vanessa we’re offering information on Ian Nash.”

“Ian Nash?” repeated Robin, sitting up to grab pen and paper and make a note of the name. “Who exactly—?”

“Gangster. Vanessa will know who he is,” said Strike.

“How much did it cost?” asked Robin. The personal bond between Strike and Shanker, profound in its way, never interfered with Shanker’s rules of business.

“Half the first week’s fee,” said Strike, “but it’ll be money well spent if Oliver comes across with the goods. How’re you?”

“What?” said Robin, disconcerted. “I’m fine. Why d’you ask?”

“Don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to you that I’ve got a duty of care, as your employer?”

“We’re partners.”

“You’re a salaried partner. You could sue for poor working conditions.”

“Don’t you think,” said Robin, examining the forearm where the eight-inch purple scar still stood out, livid, against her pale skin, “I’d’ve already done that, if I was going to? But if you’re offering to sort out the loo on the landing—”

“I’m just saying,” persisted Strike, “it’d be natural if you’d had a bit of reaction. Finding a body isn’t many people’s idea of fun.”

“I’m absolutely fine,” lied Robin.

I have to be fine, she thought, after they had bidden each other goodbye. I’m not losing everything, all over again.